A school nurse once told me I had an old soul.
I didn’t know what she meant, but I was ashamed
because she had touched my scars and seen where
my sadness made me ugly, and I smiled at her.

"I’m better now"

This sadness is a dirty, hypocritical sadness.
It hollows out my chest at night and fills it with
stones in the morning.
My tears are always unwilling,
driven out of tired eyes, my happiness I grab on to
and I push too far. Laugh, again, more, stop. Too much.
It’s not funny anymore.

I’m a melting pot of thoughts trapped
in an indifferent shell.
I’m an empty mind in an aching body.
I want to. I don’t care. I don’t know. Smother me.
Leave me alone.

This sadness is a cruel reminder and a forgetful friend.
When the weight of it all curls my shoulders forward
and drags at my feet, I forget; I am still a child.

My soul is young
I will grow.